Dead on Cue Read online

  The door was opened by Ekaterina Harlington looking pale but exquisite in Versace. Tennant introduced himself and Potter did likewise, following her into the glorious room that led off the hallway, the inspector looking admiringly round him. His sergeant, on the other hand, could not take his eyes off the woman they had come to interview and hardly noticed his surroundings.

  ‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, tea, or something stronger. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘Coffee for me, please,’ Tennant answered, while Potter – who could not take the expression of total admiration from his face – asked for tea.

  ‘A minute,’ said Ekaterina, who rose and disappeared for a second or two.

  ‘Potter,’ Tennant whispered, ‘remove that look for pity’s sake. You’re like a schoolboy watching an X film.’

  ‘I feel like one. What a woman!’

  ‘No doubt. But remember we are here on official business.’

  Ekaterina returned followed by a bustling cleaning lady carrying a tray of cups and plates, followed a second or two later by a small boy bearing a teapot and a cafetière.

  ‘He is her son,’ said Ekaterina in an undertone. Then, loudly, ‘Thank you, Callum,’ when he returned bearing cakes. She turned to the inspector. ‘You have come, no doubt, about the death of my husband.’

  ‘Yes, madam. I don’t know how to put this any other way but the fact is that Mr Harlington was deliberately pushed over the parapet. In other words, his death was not accidental.’

  ‘I see. Well, I am not altogether surprised.’

  Potter flipped open his notebook.

  ‘You see, Gerry was one of those people who made enemies wherever he went. The trouble was that he suffered with an overpowering ego. He always thought that he knew best and could do things better than anyone else. The fact that one day he would be murdered was almost a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘You speak of it very matter-of-factly, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  Ekaterina raised an exquisite shoulder. ‘How do you want me to say it? I will be honest with you. I fell out of love with him years ago and only the other day I decided on a divorce. Does that make me a suspect? I suppose it does. Do have a cake please. Mrs Wills has baked them freshly.’

  Tennant smiled to himself. Working on the old who-stood-to-gain-most method Mrs Harlington had to be suspect number one. But he believed she had an alibi for that night given by Rufus Beaudegrave himself. Nevertheless, it was his duty to probe.

  ‘Well, Mrs Harlington, in order to eliminate you from our enquiries I am obliged to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Ask away.’ She sipped green tea from an expensive-looking cup.

  ‘Are you the dead man’s only relative? Has he had any children by this or any other marriage?’

  She smiled at him kindly. ‘You are trying to find out if I am going to inherit Gerry’s vast fortune, I suppose. The truth is, Inspector Tennant, that he did not have one. He had blown all the money he ever earned on failed and dismal projects in the theatre. For example, his soap opera. It was completely and utterly useless. They showed it at midnight in the US. In Britain it wasn’t shown at all. Then he tried an ‘I Will Make You a Star’ venture which was aired on the Internet. A few pathetic black girls took their bras off and waved their goods in the faces of the cameras. He lost thousands on that project. Other than for the Wasp Man movies, Gerry was a walking disaster.’

  Tennant put his cup down and stretched out his arms. ‘But this house, the cars I saw parked outside . . . they must have cost a fortune.’

  Ekaterina shrugged. ‘But I bought them all.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, you see I was the late Grigori Makarichoff’s only child.’

  Potter spluttered into his tea cup and Tennant grew very still.

  ‘You mean that you were – are – the billionaire oligarch’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ekaterina, ‘I am. So you see I hold the purse strings.’

  ‘I’ll say you do, by God,’ answered Tennant forcefully.

  FIFTEEN

  It was evening and Nick Lawrence, attired in casual clothes he had bought off the peg whilst on holiday in Italy – hoping that they made him look debonair and sophisticated – got into his car, which he kept parked permanently in West Street as the vicarage did not run to a garage. He had bought an attractive bunch of flowers and had also carefully selected a bottle of wine, and armed with these was making his way to Oakbridge and his dinner date with Jonquil Charmwood.

  He had to confess it, he found the young woman extremely attractive in an offhand sort of way. She had all the attributes that he liked: nice hair, large expressive eyes, a kindly mouth, but she was terribly brittle in the modern style of her sex. She was one of those girls who seemed to be constantly in a hurry, dashing from one thing to the next. Frankly, Nick had been terribly surprised to be invited to dinner and wondered whether he was merely making weight, had been called upon because he was that much sought-after thing – an extra male.

  So he was astonished when arriving at her maisonette in a thirties house situated in a side street behind The George and Dragon, to discover that he was the only guest. His heart sank a little as he realized that the entire burden of conversation would fall on him. Then he remembered that at university he had been hailed as a wit and raconteur and gathered himself together.

  He imagined that Jonquil would be upstairs putting the finishing touches to her make-up and that he would hear her light quick step come running down the staircase and the door would be opened with a flourish. But instead he could have sworn that she was hovering in the hall and had opened the door while he was still straightening his Armani jacket.

  ‘Oh, hello, Vicar. Do come in.’

  ‘Thanks, Jonquil. By the way, you must call me Nick. All my friends do.’

  He produced the bouquet of flowers and gave it to her with one of his odd little bows. She smiled but he couldn’t help but notice that some of her customary zest was missing.

  ‘Why thank you. You really shouldn’t have.’

  ‘My pleasure. It was kind of you to ask me. I’ve brought some wine as well.’

  ‘Goodness. You are spoiling me. Come into the living room and sit down. I’ve got some wine cooling in there.’

  The room was small and reminded Nick of many he had seen like it, a typical thirties layout, modernized by Jonquil’s feminine touches. The old gas fire had been removed and in its place was an electric fire that represented blazing coals. Nick, addicted as he was to open blazes, thought that this was the next best thing.

  Jonquil came into the room bearing a tray of snacks, which she began to place in various vantage points.

  ‘These are to keep you going until we eat,’ she said cheerfully, but underneath her bonhomie Nick could have sworn that he could sense nervousness.

  Jonquil took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and set about wrestling with the cork.

  Nick got to his feet. ‘Here, allow me. I was known as Champagne Charlie at university.’

  ‘Were you really? I’ve never thought of you at uni somehow.’

  Nick poured two glasses. ‘Well, I was. I read Medieval History. It was after I graduated that I went to study for the priesthood.’

  ‘I don’t believe in God,’ said Jonquil tactlessly.

  ‘A lot of people don’t,’ Nick answered sadly.

  There was a slightly awkward silence broken by Jonquil suddenly getting to her feet and saying, ‘Excuse me, I think I can smell something burning.’

  Nick stared into the phoney coals, feeling rather depressed. He had long ago given up the idea of trying to convert someone to his way of thinking. He just knew that he had not been called to take up the priesthood but rather nudged – several times – so in the end he had had no option but to apply to an ecclesiastical college. And though he often found some of the tasks he had to perform deeply distressing – sitting with the dying,
comforting the bereaved – he was more than aware that the spiritual rewards were great and he enjoyed having God as his employer, he honestly did. As for the parish of Lakehurst, he felt he was one of the luckiest souls alive to dwell in such a beautiful place and to have so charming and welcoming a vicarage.

  Jonquil reappeared. ‘All’s well,’ she said. ‘Come on, Nick, pour the champagne.’

  She sat down opposite him and took the glass. He noticed that her hand was shaking and that she drained its contents as quickly as possible. Neither would she look at him, but stared at the rug as if it were an old friend.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked eventually. ‘Come on. You can tell me.’

  Startlingly, she went down on her knees in front of him and threw herself into his arms. Through her convulsive tears she sobbed, ‘Oh Nick, Nick, something so terrible has happened.’

  ‘Shush, now, there there,’ he said, just as if she were a weeping child. ‘Just tell me all about it and we will try to sort it out.’

  ‘But Emma’s vanished,’ she said, leaning back and looking at him through brooks of tears. ‘She’s gone – and I don’t know where.’

  ‘Emma who?’ Nick asked patiently. ‘Look, Jonquil, I think you had better tell me the story from the beginning.’

  He helped her back into her chair, lent her a sensible handkerchief with the initial N in the corner – given to him by his father’s girlfriend at Christmas – made shushing noises until she calmed down a little.

  ‘It all began at that silly Son et Lumière,’ Jonquil said between sobs. ‘I was suddenly presented with tickets for Les Miserables on the beastly thing’s first night. I’d been waiting for them for ages and lo and behold they had to come on that night of all nights. Anyway, I asked a friend of mine, Emma Simms, if she’d take the part of the bear for me. In secret, of course. You see, I wanted to see Les Mis so badly. I know it was wrong of me but I had been waiting for months and months to get in. Then a friend of mine – who was in it by the way – got me these couple of seats and I just couldn’t resist. And now Emma’s gone.’

  Nick stared at her in silence, his brain beginning to race.

  ‘So what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she wailed. ‘Paul Silas rang me to tell me all about the murder of Gerry Harlington and then asked why I left early on the first night. I muttered something about having a headache and he said that was very unprofessional. But then I turned on the BBC news and there were pictures of Fulke Castle and a short interview with Sir Rufus, who was pleasant but obviously put out. Then there was a resumé of Gerry’s career.’ A small smile briefly appeared. ‘Gerry was a terrible actor, wasn’t he? He could dance quite well but, boy oh boy, he deserved a Smellie for the worst performances ever given.’

  ‘But tell me about Emma. What happened to her?’

  ‘That’s just what I don’t know,’ Jonquil said, sniffing. ‘I rang her early the next morning – that was the morning after the first night, before we knew anything bad had happened – it was at about seven thirty because she always left for work at twenty to eight – and I got her answerphone. I left a message thanking her and asking if it all went well. To cut to the chase I never got a reply. Eventually, after six or seven calls I went round there and the girl she shared the flat with told me that she hadn’t clapped eyes on her since that night. She thought she’d probably gone to visit her mother unexpectedly.’

  ‘Has this matter been reported to the police?’

  ‘I don’t honestly know. Perhaps Emma’s flat mate did so.’

  Nick took a swig of champagne and said, ‘I think it is essential that you tell Inspector Tennant all of this tonight. I’m sure what happened to the girl is of vital importance.’

  ‘But suppose she is with her mother? Suppose she had a call on her mobile that her mother was ill and she must go to see her at once?’

  ‘If that is so the police will be able to sort it out very quickly. Would you like me to ring them?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes please. Would you?’

  Nick sighed silently, wondering why he always got the nasty jobs to do. But looking at Jonquil Charmwood, moist eyed and pleading, how could he refuse? Taking his mobile from the pocket of his Armani jacket, he dialled the number of the headquarters in Lewes.

  They telephoned Tennant in his car, heading back home, thinking that a good day’s work had been done. Consequently he was not pleased with the interruption and when the voice came over the loudspeaker he listened with a certain amount of irritation.

  ‘But why wasn’t the girl reported missing earlier?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t know, sir. It’s all a convoluted tale. Apparently the girl genuinely playing the bear didn’t want to own up at first that she went to the theatre in London.’

  ‘Silly bitch.’

  ‘Anyway, the bear who went to town is called Jonquil Charmwood and she lives at number four Powdermill Lane in Oakbridge. She’s there now with the Reverend Lawrence.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Tennant said angrily. He turned to Potter. ‘Sorry, Potter. I know you were wanting to get home.’

  The inspector felt rather than saw his sergeant grow warm. ‘Actually I had a date to play floodlit tennis tonight. I’d better ring and cancel.’

  ‘Shame. Mixed doubles, was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Potter answered enigmatically. ‘It was.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Tennant, and relapsed into silence.

  They reached Powdermill Lane thirty minutes later, Potter driving at top speed, to find the front door opened by the vicar. He held out his hand.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector. I’m sure that this is the last thing you wanted but I honestly felt you ought to know.’

  Thankfully Jonquil had regained her composure and having dived into the bathroom for ten minutes had more or less restored her face. She offered Tennant a glass of wine which he accepted with alacrity, Potter as usual had a cup of coffee. Glancing at Nick, Tennant thought he was somewhat the worse for wear but said nothing, thinking that the poor fellow was probably suffering with a bad case of wrung withers. He turned to look at Jonquil.

  ‘Now tell me the story from the start,’ he said, which she proceeded to do. Potter wearily got out his notebook.

  When she had finished Tennant asked, ‘And this girl, Emma Simms, you say is a friend of yours?’

  ‘I don’t know her all that well. In fact she’s always struck me as rather a pathetic person. She’s been in love for years with a married man who treats her like dirt and is quite happy about the situation. Anyway, I thought I would get her interested in the Odds and that’s how she came to play the bear. To see if she liked the people. I smuggled her into the dress rehearsal – an earlier one. I thought she would pick up what she had to do from that.’ Jonquil’s lower lip trembled. ‘I feel terrible now. Suppose something awful has happened to her.’

  Tennant looked at his watch. ‘It’s just gone nine. I think it’s a bit late to go calling on her flatmate. Give me her contact details and we’ll get to her first thing in the morning. Thank you very much for the information, Miss Charmwood. I suggest you have a good night’s sleep. I’ve always wanted to say ‘Come along, Vicar’ and now I’m going to get my wish. Come along, Nick, we’ll give you a lift home. I somehow feel you’d fail the breathalyser tonight.’

  Jonquil looked contrite. ‘Oh, you poor thing. We haven’t had anything to eat yet.’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Nick cheerfully. ‘I can have a cheese sandwich when I get back.’

  ‘Must you go?’

  ‘I really think I should. I’ll come and fetch the car in the morning.’

  ‘It’s up to you, Vicar,’ said Tennant, quite seriously. ‘You can stay with Miss Charmwood by all means.’

  ‘Well, I think I’ll take you up on your kind offer,’ said Nick rather hastily. ‘I have had quite a fair amount to drink this evening.’ On the doorstep, he turned to the inspector. ‘I kept sipping that wretched champagne while Jonquil was wea
ving her tale.’

  ‘A strange story,’ said Tennant reflectively.

  ‘Very,’ Nick answered sombrely.

  They got into the car and he looked at the two policemen’s heads from his seat in the back and wondered what they were thinking. It seemed odd to him that an unofficial understudy should go missing on the same night that Gerry Harlington had been thrown over the battlements. Was there a serial killer on the loose again? He said a silent and heartfelt prayer that the answer was no, remembering the horror and bloodshed of his previous encounter with such a creature. Yet he could see no thread linking a rather shy girl helping out a friend and an American hip-hop dancer turned movie actor. In fact there was none.

  Nick shook himself. Emma Simms had probably gone off suddenly to see her mother and not left anyone a note. That was the most likely explanation. Or, perhaps, her married boyfriend had had some time to spare and had taken her away for a naughty few days. That was the most probable explanation of them all. The vicar sighed and fell asleep in the back of the police car.

  SIXTEEN

  The Oakhurst Dramatists and Dramatic Society was in an emergency committee meeting. Paul Silas, fittingly clad in black trousers and a dark polo neck looked sombrely round the foregathered company and nodded his head in silence. He resembled Macbeth about to launch into his Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow speech. So much so that Annette Muffat, the large blonde, had to control an unseemly fit of the giggles. But the rest of the members, particularly Mike and Meg Alexander, who were dying to take over the entire society, glared round them with cold, snake-like eyes.

  Barry Beardsley spoke up. ‘Well I know you got us here because of the present situation, Paul. But what particular aspect do you want us to consider?’

  ‘The funeral, old boy,’ came the answer in sepulchral tones.

  ‘Have the police released the body?’ asked Estelle Yeoman, the ex-professional.

  ‘It is the coroner who does that. Not the police,’ said Mike Alexander snappishly.

  ‘All right, all right. Whoever. Has the body been released?’